Forgive
by GennyWrites57
Summary: Oneshot. Implied Rowaelin. In the aftermath of her coronation, Aelin dreams of Sam Cortland and Nehemia Ytger. With so much left unsaid for so long, she jumps at the chance to reach for the closure that she was never allowed to get. But rather than asking for their forgiveness, perhaps the hardest thing to do is forgive herself for all that has happened.


In the weeks following her coronation, for the first time in as far back as she could remember, Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn-Galathynius was granted the privilege of pleasant dreams. Not the nightmares that had plagued her for so long, memories of pain and blood and heartache, salt and fathomless dark pits, screams of her loved ones thrumming in her ears like an endless death knell. Those seemed to have died right along with Maeve and Erawen, banished to whatever hell realm the gods and goddesses now shared with one another.

And though she was all too happy to have them gone, a small part of her knew, deep down, that the lack of bad dreams didn't mean that she was completely whole again. Perhaps she never would be, truly; perhaps there would always be a part of her that ached at the memory of Gavriel, Nehemia, Manon's Thirteen — so many countless lives that had been sacrificed, in one way or another, all for the purpose of a war that ought to never have been laid in their hands in the first place. But she had learned during her time in Wendlyn, what seemed like an eternity ago, that she could either allow those tiny broken pieces, those little holes, to grow and devour her entirely, or she could grow even stronger from them.

Mala's gift of fire or not, she was still Aelin of the Wildfire. Fireheart. And she would not be broken by the past.

She'd be like glass — pliable, reborn, shaped by the heat of the flames into something new, something even sturdier and just as beautiful as ever.

So hard to believe, she couldn't help but think as she drifted between sleep and wakefulness, lying curled up in her particularly luxurious bed, that she had come this far after so long. Sometimes it still felt like yesterday that she had been all the way back in Rifthold, living a life of comfortable cowardice in the Assassin's Keep — running, whether she knew it or not, from the fate that would inevitably catch up to her, no matter how fast she pedaled away from it. How strange that she no longer lay awake every night with Arobynn Hamel as a dark cloud constantly looming over her shoulder. Manipulator, father, brother, or lover? He'd never made it clear, and she'd never wanted to explore _that_ particular deep, dark pit. His teachings, the way she'd once almost desperately wanted his approval, all seemed like a different world, someone else's life.

Yet there was proof that she'd lived it all in the way that a part of her chest always had — and, she suspected, always would — felt that much emptier in the aftermath of everything. Like there had once been something there, something so essential to building who she was now, that had been unexpectedly cut free from her and thrown away too soon, and hadn't ever been able to heal properly. Grief never faded, and that was especially true in the case of Sam Cortland. Sometimes, even now, even as deliriously happy as Rowan made her, she still found herself missing the first man she'd ever loved. Not _pining_ after him, not in the way that she once had, but the love remained, all the same. Though she'd found her mate, the one person who made her soul feel truly complete, she would never forget the man who'd dared to love her so dearly, even when he'd ended up broken and left for dead because of it.

That much in itself was too complicated for words. And yet, she and Rowan had talked about it on a number of occasions — proof, perhaps, of how deep their love, their mutual understanding of one another, truly ran. He felt the same way towards Lyria, she supposed: the woman who might have one day borne his child, had she not died simply because the Queen of the Valg had decided to entangle her in a web, a cruel trick to ensnare Aelin and Rowan. All the guilt and the sorrow that came with experiences like that seemed impossible to communicate at times, and yet, with each other, words seemed to flow so much more freely. Like just looking into his familiar eyes, breathing in that scent of pine and snow, of _home_, loosened the enormous weight sitting on her chest, a damper on her emotions.

Tonight she'd felt particularly low about it. It was the anniversary of Sam's death, a day that never got any easier despite the time going by, and that on top of everything else she already felt weighing upon her, to make no mention of her responsibilities as queen, had been her absolute breaking point. So rarely did she allow herself to crumble, to cry, but she'd done so tonight, folded herself in Rowan's arms and allowed the tears to fall. Her sobs had always been as savage and intense as her anger and wrath, fighting up from her throat in great, ragged gasps, her tears hot as they spilled down her face.

When she'd at last calmed down, she'd taken deep, greedy breaths of air and shakily wiped her eyes, a brittle laugh escaping her parted lips. "Wouldn't it be rich," she'd muttered with a bitter sort of humor tinging her voice, "if this was the night that I just give up? After everything?"

"I've never known you not to fight for anything in your gods-damned life," Rowan had responded without missing a beat, a smirk pulling up at the corner of his mouth as she'd run his fingers through her golden hair. "And I expect this will be no exception. You are my Fireheart," he'd said, in that tone of richest velvet, affection and strength all at once, that she loved so much. "And you will survive, just as you always have. What you feel doesn't make you weak. It is how we move forward that defines us, not what we experience."

She supposed that conversation was precisely what led to this strange dream in which she now found herself.

The first and most important thing she'd taken note of was that she wasn't frightened — beyond everything else, beyond where she was or what she was doing or even if she were here all by herself, she noticed most of all that she simply felt at peace. How long had it been since she'd been able to breathe so freely, to tilt her face upward and catch the rays of sunshine spilling upon it without fearing it might cloud over in seconds? Drinking in that feeling for as long as she could, enjoying every lovely second of it, she at last glanced around and tried to take in her surroundings. She stood in a wide clearing in the middle of what looked like a dense forest, the trees a canopy of pine needles and twinkling snowfall. The sun beamed down in cheerful slivers through the holes in the treetops, sparkling where it hit the forest floor. Terrasen — but not war-torn and recovering. This was the Terrasen she'd known as a child, not the same territory she'd won back as an adult.

But it was the voice from over her shoulder that made her freeze, made her feel as though every drop of blood in her body might have turned to ice right then and there.

"I've been waiting for you, Elentiya."

Aelin didn't know if she could bear to turn around, didn't want to risk ruining the perfection around her with the last memory she'd had of the person to which that voice belonged. She still saw it sometimes in the back of her mind, that broken body on the bed, the sheets soaked so thoroughly with blood that they almost looked black. Did she dare face the nightmare she was sure awaited her? Taking quick, unsteady breaths that stuck in her throat, she swallowed hard and clenched her fists. Her nails dug half-moons into her palms. And slowly but surely, she rotated, bracing herself for what she might find — and somehow, what she saw before her startled her even more than the horror that she had been anticipating.

This was not Nehemia as she'd last seen her, dead and tortured and empty, but the young princess that she'd befriended in the glass castle forever ago. She stood tall, her back straight, regal, her caramel eyes bright and as lively as Aelin had ever seen them. She wore her hair in a long, elegant braid, clasped with the bright aquamarine jewels of Ellwye that she had so loved in life. Aelin knew she was trembling, could feel the tears prickling at the backs of her eyes, the weakness in her knees, but she couldn't even bring herself to care as she stumbled forward, hardly able to believe it.

"You — you're here," she found herself saying at last, unable even to muster up a typical lighthearted, quick-witted response. "It's been so long — I thought I would never see you again."

Images ran unbidden to the forefront of her mind: the Wyrdgate through which she'd created a pathway to the realm of the dead, the image of her long lost friend's disappointed, severe face staring down at her, telling her that she couldn't stay, that what she'd done was wrong, upset the balance of the world as they knew it. Aelin could remember all too vividly the stark pain that had torn at her chest when she'd heard that Nehemia hadn't been able to stay all that time ago — perhaps, back then, a part of her, the selfish, cowardly part of her that she hadn't been able to conquer at that point, had been searching more for closure, for forgiveness, than anything else. And that grief, that loss, came more from knowing she might never have it.

Something like a melancholy smile touched Nehemia's full mouth for a moment before it faded away. "I am not the princess Nehemia that you knew in life — merely a vision. An imprint. Think of me as a sort of footprint left behind by her soul," the apparition explained, "as she departed from this world."

Still, it was as close to her old friend as she might ever get, and seeing her face so clearly certainly didn't stop the flood of emotion. Shaking her head in bewilderment, Aelin replied, "Why are you here? Does she — Nehemia — does she have a message for me?"

The smile returned to Nehemia's face, this time more genuine, and lingering for far longer. "Look closer, Elentiya," the princess's ghost whispered, that warmth in her voice beckoning her nearer. "I am not the only one who has come here to speak with you."

Somehow, before she even caught sight of what the princess was referencing, she knew — knew in that soul-deep sort of way what she might find when she looked. Grief and pain and death had long been her friend, and that twisting sensation in her gut was all too familiar to her now, that sense of fathomless emptiness, something irreplaceable gone forever. As a child, she'd thought that simply missing someone could be too great a pain to bear all on its own, but after her parents' deaths, after everything, she knew that loss was its own beast entirely. And the man staring back at her now, his features so achingly familiar that her chest seemed to throb at the sight of him, was one of the most profound losses she thought she'd ever experienced.

Sam Cortland stood across from her, right next to Princess Nehemia.

He looked exactly as he had all those years ago, in their little apartment in Rifthold. _Their_ place. It hadn't been much, but she remembered she'd been so proud of it, the beautiful view of the Avery, all those nights spent up on the rooftop with him at her side. Only when she studied the planes and angles of his face did she realize how truly youthful he'd been when he died; the Assassin's Guild and Sam's mother's history had stolen whatever sort of childhood both of them might have had, and sometimes it wasn't easy to remember that both of them had been practically children when their entire worlds had crumbled all around them. Just a boy — a boy, tortured to death and left broken, in agony, all because of Arobynn's pride and possessiveness, and she hadn't been able to put a stop to it.

_You were young, too_, Rowan might have said to her, but she often found herself wondering if that even mattered.

"Hello, Sam," she said at last, acutely aware of how dangerously her voice quavered, of how the unshed tears building up in her eyes now spilled over onto her face, twin rivulets down her cheeks.

Almost as if she were having an out-of-body experience, Aelin found herself reaching a trembling hand out for him — to hold his hand, to brush the side of his face with the calloused palm of her hand in that affectionate way she used to, she wasn't sure. It lingered in midair, shaking, useless; she was just about to falter, to bring it back down again, when Sam reached forward and twined his fingers through hers. Not a romantic gesture, she realized, nothing that would invoke feelings of guilt for moving on. It simply anchored her, grounded her to the spot when her emotions were running so high she felt as if she might fly away.

"I missed you, Celaena," were Sam's first words. And then, a somewhat sheepish, bafflingly _real_ smile touched his lips and he corrected himself with, "Aelin."

"I'm sorry I never told you." And that was the truth. The truth she'd always needed him to know, that had nearly killed her all these years, the guilt that had followed her and threatened to suffocate her with every second. Each syllable left her in a rush, as if someone had punched her in the gut and forced the words out with the impact of the blow. Years of words she'd always wanted to say, but never had the chance, not like this. "I only wanted to keep you safe. I'm so sorry. I wanted to protect you from all of it, Sam."

The grin on Sam's face gave way to a more somber, serious expression. "It wasn't your fault," he said, slowly and clearly, obviously wanting terribly for her to understand. "You never asked for any of it."

"Oh, Elentiya," said Nehemia at his side, that same melancholy smile on her face. "You have been so brave."

The words, especially coming from the princess, jolted through her. All too clearly, Aelin could still hear, even now, Nehemia's last words to her in the back of her mind: _A coward. You are nothing more than a coward._

"I should never have run from it all," she said, and whether she was talking to Sam or Nehemia or even just herself, she wasn't entirely sure. But she couldn't stop herself, couldn't swallow her desperate apologies any longer. "I was naive — a fool. And you, both of you . . . you _never_ should have had to die like that." She wanted more than anything to lift her hand, to prove to Nehemia that she'd made a vow all that time ago to follow through on the promise to free Ellwye, but a choked sob left her as she remembered that Maeve had stolen from her all her scars, all her reminders of the past that had made her.

As if she could read her mind — _could_ spirits read minds? — Nehemia said, "Scars aren't always visible. There are some that remain with us until the ends of our days, and even beyond that, just not in the way we might think." She paused, looking Aelin over thoughtfully, and then concluded, "You are different now than you were when I knew you. Time has changed you in many ways, but kept the best parts of you as well. And I think that the person you have become today says all I need to know about how far you have come. I forgave you long ago — now you must forgive yourself."

Forgiveness? At one time in her life she might have been compelled to laugh at the idea. How many things had she done, after all, that could be considered unforgivable? She still felt the blood soaking her hands sometimes, still remembered each of her kills, the way she'd coldly, effortlessly murdered Archer Finn and countless others. Her heart had been so full of anger, so bent on revenge and making things right for herself — when had that changed? And did that mean that some fundamental part of her had changed, too? Would she always be wild and untamed, always have a killer's edge, never entirely content with being in one place for too long? Could she call herself a worthy queen, knowing all the things she'd done while her people had suffered? The questions had filled her head like angry hornets so many times that she'd lost count.

But looking into Nehemia's eyes, into _Sam's_ eyes — both she thought she'd never see again — Aelin knew the truth of it. They were right. Rowan was right. She had travelled far enough, had pushed herself to the absolute limit, had been so tired for so long. And now it was time to grant herself some grace, to wash her hands clean of those old stains and begin life anew.

She would rule with her head held high. And she would make those that she had lost along the way prouder of her than they could imagine.

"I've missed you too," she breathed at last, finally answering Sam's very first statement to her, hardly able to summon enough air to her lungs to speak at her usual confident, unwavering volume. "Both of you. So much."

"We never left you," Sam replied, his eyes bright and sincere as they'd ever been. "No matter how far away we might be, we'll always be with you."

In any other situation, she might have been compelled to tease him, to groan endlessly at how cliche his words might have sounded. But here? Now? They were exactly what she had longed to hear for what had seemed like an eternity.

"Always the know-it-all," she joked through her tears, a watery, tremulous laugh leaving her parted lips. Swiping quickly at her eyes, she said with a sigh, "I suppose I'll be waking up soon? No dream this pleasant is ever allowed to last long." _At least, not for me_.

"Soon," confirmed Nehemia, "yes."

Before Aelin could protest, Sam cut in. "But you'll be alright. I know you will — and so do you. You remember what I used to tell you, for when you feel afraid?"

Of course she did. How could she ever forget? Even now, she found herself clinging tightly to the ritual that had gotten her through Endovier, through Maeve's months of ceaseless torture, through everything: _My name is Aelin Galathynius, and I will not be afraid_.

"You'll see us again," he reassured her, the warmth on his face sending a pang straight through from the center of her chest all the way to the pit of her stomach. "It's just not your time yet. You've got to rule, remember? Put that crown you fought so hard for to good use." There was lightness, a touch of their old snarky humor dancing in his tone of voice now, and it very nearly made her tear up again.

But rather than cry, Aelin Galathynius allowed her mouth to curve up into her typical mischievous smirk. And she said, "Oh, I plan to. And when we meet again, I promise to never let you hear the end of it."


End file.
